


Two Bitten Hearts

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Morrigan - Freeform, Smut, Wynne - Freeform, alistair - Freeform, with FEELING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 00:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15182753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Many things change from the first time. Building trust, growing love. They take their time with it.---A thing of beauty, to be behind her. A thing of terror, to be in her way. A privilege, to know both. A challenge, to be even closer. This is a different fight altogether. A play, a practice, grass under their feet and she circles him. Shadows long under stars and distant fire, they have gone some ways away from the tents. Respectful, in their private battle. He can only barely see the curling vines of her vallaslin, on her forehead, down her nose. Better able to see the metal in the moonlight, and Zevran strikes first.





	1. The Body

A thing of beauty, to be behind her. A thing of terror, to be in her way. She fights as a soldier does, as an army does. She advances without hesitation, the spear turning in her hand. Armor stained, leather worn and shield bloodied. Her helm follows the same line as her _vallaslin_ , with that split down the center of her face, and an iron owl marks the plume of feathers. The arrows flies towards her but she does not flinch. She simply turns her head and lets metal strike against metal, and her march forward does not stop. Raising her shield as she batters into one, falling to her knee and stretching out towards the other. Thrusting forward and the spear catches the darkspawn in the soft spot of its armor, skewers it to the side.

When the battle is finished, she plants her spear in the ground, lets the shield fall from her grasp. Raising hands to her helm, pulling it free and tucking it underneath her arm. Strands of hair have escaped her braids, wisp and curl by her face. Beaded sweat on her brow, a flush in her cheeks, and she still stands tall, shoulders squared. A clay molded statue, a beauty of bronze, and Zevran watches her from the corner of his eye. He follows in her wake, the footsteps of war. He knows what it is to be in her way, a terror he had welcomed. He still remembers the feeling of her shield against her ribs. All air gone from him at once, the blessed dark taking him.

He had woken, surprised to wake, just as she had crouched before him. She had taken off her helm then as she has done now, and asked for his name. Dark hair curling at her cheek, beaded sweat on her brow. Eyes clear and clouded grey, she listened carefully to every word he spoke, without a change in expression. Then she had extended her hand and pulled him to his feet. He has been enjoying the quiet flirtation ever since, the laugh and lingering look, the frank discussion by campfire. He sleeps with a knife under his pillow.  

“The darkspawn are farther north now than I expected,” she says, “the bannorn doesn’t seem to be giving them any trouble in slowing their advance.”

“Too much distraction with their little squabble,” Zevran says. A deep breath, a heavier sigh, and Noya nods agreement. She looks over her shoulder, the barest glance at Alistair and Morrigan, caught up in their bickering.

“I have noticed, dear Warden, you leave your right open for attack. For any trained eye, it would be obvious to see that the shield is a recent addition,” he says. Turning her attention back to him, and there’s the barest hint of a smile.

“Are you offering to correct it for me?”

“If you wish. What is the harm in a little practice, hmm? I could do with some myself,” he says. He knows her to hunt by herself. To take only her spear and disappear into the nearby wood, returning with something to supplement their dinner. Besides the frequent battles, it must be the only practice she gets. The shield is a necessity against the darkspawn, not so much for a time before she was Warden. This is how he justifies it, of course.

It would be foolish not to gain her favor. She still holds his life in her hands. Noya picks up her shield, her spear, the helm still under her arm. Nodding as she walks past him, waving away Alistair’s arguments, a polite word spoken to Morrigan. Zevran follows after her, grinning at the other two. He stays close here, just as he stays at her side in battle. He makes himself useful, valuable. A tool, not so easily discarded. There is a certain loyalty, one he cannot deny. A debt owed for this second chance given. Still, he fears.

The others have arrived before them, in the appointed region. A camp already set for them, tents in a circle of this clearing. Wynne’s magic washes over all of them, gives strength to aching bone. “You look like you’ve seen some trouble,” she says, tipping Alistair’s chin upwards and wiping away the thin cut on his cheek.

“A party of darkspawn,” Noya tells her, “likely scouts.”

“Then we should sleep with one eye open tonight,” Wynne says.

“Zevran and I will take first watch,” she says, the decision made. She is quick to undo her armor, fingers at straps, rolling her shoulders as she pulls herself free. She emerges from her tent later, her hair bound in one single braid over her shoulder and a tunic that hangs loosely. Bare feet against the grass, raising arms above her head as she stretches. The others have eaten, found their way to bed. They’ve all learned to fall asleep quickly, take snatches of rest where they can. Zevran waits for her at the still burning fire, embers that he keeps from dimming.

He’s changed into clothing more comfortable as well, and he keeps his trousers rolled up to the knee. She takes a seat beside him, foot against foot, rests elbows on her knee. She watches the flames, that flickering splendor, closes her eyes and basks in the warmth on her skin. She looks over at him, and smiles. There’s a certain ease to her when they are alone. He doesn’t know if she’s like this with the others. Perhaps she gives Alistair the same smile? Shares laughter with Leliana? Zevran pushes the thoughts from his mind as he leans forward.

“Are we still to spar, Warden? Or have you changed your mind?” He asks.

“It sounds like you’ve changed yours. Afraid I’ll beat you?”

“I think you want me to,” he tells her, voice lowering, suggestion in his gaze. Her smile widens and she turns completely towards him. Shoulder touches against shoulder as she closes the space between them, as she studies the curve of his mouth. Her nose brushes against his, and her gaze finds his. The kiss is politely given, carefully spoken. As quickly as it had come, she leans back again, pushes herself up. He feels himself being pulled by some invisible string, quietly following after her. She gathers her spear, her shield. He takes up his daggers.

A thing of beauty, to be behind her. A thing of terror, to be in her way. A privilege, to know both. A challenge, to be even closer. This is a different fight altogether. A play, a practice, grass under their feet and she circles him. Shadows long under stars and distant fire, they have gone some ways away from the tents. Respectful, in their private battle. He can only barely see the curling vines of her _vallaslin_ , on her forehead, down her nose. Better able to see the metal in the moonlight, and he strikes first.

To the right, out of the way of her shield and into the path of her spear. The dagger leaves his grip for a moment – a flash as it turns in air – catching it quickly and striking forward. Even without boots her steps are steady as she turns, whirling out of his way, bringing about the shield. Easily moving out of its range, pushing forward once again. He punishes the reach of her shield, stays at the corner of her vision. A surprise when she flips her grip on the spear, and with a quick motion, brings the wood of it smacking around his knees. Twisting on her heel, and the shield stops mere inches away from his face.

Zevran is formidable against all. All except her. Noya’s beginning to suspect it might be on purpose. Pursing her lips, she sweeps the legs out from under him. “Well done Warden, I –” Silenced as she puts her foot against his chest and pushes him down into the dirt. Her spear touches the goblet of his throat, and Zevran holds his daggers tightly. She slowly lowers herself above him, but her spear doesn’t move. A knee on either side of him, Noya settles her weight and straddles him as she shakes the shield loose. Both hands on the spear now, and she keeps her back straight, shoulders square, staring down at him from a chin held high.  

“How am I supposed to learn to close my openings, when you won’t fight fairly?” It’s barely a question. He eases, relaxes, and the grin comes quickly, laughter at his lips. Throwing the daggers away as he props himself up on elbows.

“My dear Warden,” and she presses the spear a little closer, metal cold against his flesh, “I have no idea what you mean.”

“If you beat me, that doesn’t mean I’ll suddenly think that you’re going to kill me in my sleep. I know what kind of man you are,” she says.

“I do not think you do,” Zevran says quietly, and it is here, in his voice, that sounds the true defeat.

“I trust you,” Noya tells him.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” he says. Tipping his head back as the spear bites deeper, on that flat edge which means no harm. It’s moved in one swift go, sheathed in the dirt beside his head. On this bed of green blades he lies, looks up at her. Some unreadable expression on her face as she reaches upwards. Fingers at the buttons of her tunic, undoing them one by one, all the way down. Her hand around his wrist, pulling his touch upwards, pressing her palm against the center of her chest.  

“Zevran,” she says, “I’m not wearing any armor.” He can feel her heart beat beneath a cage of ribs. “I have no hands on any weapon. The others are sleeping and I won’t make a sound. Kill me, and go, if that’s what you wish.” Careful minutes slip away as they look at each other in silence, without moving. Seconds he counts in the pulse of her, timeless in the skin of her. She strikes first. Cupping his face in her hands, keeping him steady as her lips crash against his.

Another battle, this. Tongue pressing against tongue, and his touch shifts from the center of her chest outwards, breast underneath his palm. They push and press against each other, fight to control each other, themselves, the only sound their muted breathing, an underlying groan. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he is quick to flip them over. A blade of grass touches her cheek as she crosses her legs around him. Reaching upwards, tearing at his shirt with urgency.

The kiss is momentarily broken as she removes it, throws it to the side. Her tunic lies useless underneath her, and he scrapes kisses against her jaw, her neck, teeth gentle but insistent around her nipple. Her hands in his hair, and she’s pressing at his shoulders. Flipping him back, straddling him once again, and he breathes heavy beneath her as she reaches between them, fingers fumbling at the lacings of his trousers. Palm against grass, pushing upwards to meet her, drawing her into the kiss once again.

Pinching a nipple between his fingers before he is flipping them over once again, fingers in the waistband of her pants. She licks her lips as she looks at him darkly, raising her hips upwards as he casts them aside. A hand on his shoulders, pulling him down to her, his pants only halfway down his ass. They breathe against each other, and she bites his bottom lip between her teeth, fights for him utterly. “This is much different than how I thought it might go,” he says between kisses.

Her hands over the curve of him, the hips of him, sliding between them, “how did you think it would go?” Teeth at her throat, marks he leaves, marks she lets him leave.

“Mhmm,” and her breast fits so perfectly in his grasp, “candles,” mouth against her skin, a hand squeezing at her hip, “oils, flowers, fragrance –”

“Romantic,” she says as she wraps her hand around the base of his hardening cock. An elbow in the dirt and he’s reaching downwards as he kisses her cheeks, her nose, her lips. Finding soft curls, wet with want, teasing fingers against her cunt.

“I thought so,” he murmurs. Between the folds of her, fingertip pressing against her entrance. The smallest mewling groan as he presses inside, as she returns the favor. Stroking the length of him, from base to tip, forehead pressed against forehead as they masturbate each other.

“Zevran,” she says.

“Yes, Noya?”

“Fuck me.”

“As you wish.” Mumbled against her mouth as he replaces her hand with his. Her legs squeeze around his waist, fingers ghosting across his shoulders, hands threading through his hair. Kneeling in the grass, moving his hips forward inch by slow inch, until he’s inside her to the hilt. Leaning back as his hands tighten on her waist, raising her hips up to meet his. Thrust after heavy thrust, and her hands clench fistfuls of grass. Her braid over her shoulder, but slipping steadily, eyes closed and head tilted back. Disarmed and vulnerable, he holds her tighter.

Her eyes open, meet his as they fuck, and Noya reaches up, pushes against his chest. A different battle, this, yes, but a fight nonetheless, and she is pushing him down and rising above him, beginning a rhythm of her own. He reaches upwards, pulls her down to him, an urgent kiss, his tongue in her mouth, and he wraps a hand around her throat. She does not slow, hands pressing against his chest, hip against him. He bends his knees, feet planting on the ground, and matches her thrust for thrust. She’s tight, hot, wet, around him, and he holds her tightly.

He uses the grip he has on her to roll them to the side, to catch her in his arms, to pull her against him. Side by side in that grass, and he peppers her chest in kisses, nibbles, one of her legs over his waist. Grinding up inside her, and her fist tightens in his hair. “Don’t cum inside,” she manages between moans. His eyes half-lidded, feeling the heat of her skin against his cheek, he can’t muster a reply. To focused on the rhythm, of his cock slick with the wet of her. Her hand shakes in his hair as she curls around him, nails biting into the skin of his shoulder.

Reaching between them as he pulls himself from her before she pulls him along with her. Her leg still around him, and he desperately strokes himself to completion. She, still holding him, breathing heavy with pleasure given, heady with lust. “Cum for me,” she says, low and husky, and that’s all it takes to undo him, spilling his seed on the grass behind her. His hand slick with evidence of them, he wipes his palm on the parts of his trousers he can reach. They lie tangled up together, not caring enough to move from this.

Crickets in the brush, and some owl takes wing. She rubs comforting circles in his hair, against his head, cradles him close, her mouth against his forehead. He has arms wrapped around her, face buried against the crook of her neck, his eyes closed. “What now?” She asks.

“That is entirely up to you, my Warden,” he says, his voice still ragged. “I was raised to take my pleasures where they could be found, for they do not come very often. I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give.”

“The same goes for you, Zevran,” Noya tells him. Quiet, in that, a simple permission. So when she asks, he is ready with an answer. “Did you want to sleep in my tent?”

“No – I think not.” There’s a knife under his pillow. “Perhaps another time,” he says.

“Is there anything you do want?”

“As lovely as this was, I would like to see you properly next time,” he tells her. “Mhmm? A bed would not hurt as well.” She chuckles.

“Fair enough.”


	2. The Heart

“A letter from Lord Darley, who believes there are Darkspawn under his house and wishes you to send a Warden to investigate,” he says. They walk side by side, and she rolls her eyes as she takes the letter.

“Any recruit we don’t like? Send them. This is the fifth time in so many weeks. If it’s another cat under the floorboards, I’m going to burn his house down personally,” she says, scanning the page.

“I’m sure he’d be honored that the Warden Commander has taken such an interest in him,” he tells her, the chuckle behind each word. She gives him a scoff as she hands the letter back, and he tucks it into the mass he holds in his arms. “That seems to be all for now, besides a few petitioners waiting in the hall.”

“Good,” she says, her hand on the doorknob, “I’ll attend to them soon.” A dismissive nod, and he bows before turning and beginning to walk back down the hallway. Opening the door, and she abruptly comes to a stop on the threshold. Still holding the doorknob, and the smile spreads across her face.

“Garavel!” Looking over her shoulder, shouting down the hallway. The seneschal instantly turns back towards her, listening attentively. “I’ve changed my mind,” she says, “You can handle the petitioners. I’m not to be disturbed until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.” He means to protest, but without looking back, Noya steps through into her room completely, and closes the door behind her. He hears the click of a lock, and Garavel shakes his head.

Zevran springs up from the chair behind her desk, makes his way towards her. A gentle touch of his hands against her arms and moving upwards, smiling as he pulls her into his embrace. “ _Mi alma_ ,” he says, “ _mi vida_.” Holding her tightly, holding her close, her arms around him and they sway together, rocked by some gentle music, the joy of each other. “ _Mi amor_.”

“You’re early,” she says as she breaks them apart, reaching upwards and brushing her hand against his cheek. “I hope that means everything went well.” Tucking hair behind his ear, tracing the shell of it as she looks at him softly and smiles. Over the lines of tattoo and he leans into her touch.

“No trouble. I am, after all, the greatest assassin you know,” he says as he brushes his nose against hers and they chuckle together. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised. Creators, I’ve missed you.”

“Mhmm, show me.” Arms over his shoulders, a grin, a smirk, and Noya hops into his arms, wraps legs tightly around his waist. Holding her up, hands under her thighs, her hair brushes against his face. A dark veil around them as lip presses against lip, and they reacquaint each other with their taste. He carries the sun with him, warmth on his tongue and spice in his kiss. He carries her to the bed, falls gently with her. A tangle of limbs, of closely shared things, and she has her fist wound in his tunic. Pulling him with her as she arranges them properly.

His knees on either side of her, and he is peppering kisses against her cheek, the line of her jaw. She winds a strand of his hair around her finger, lets it loose once again. Threading her fingers through, circling the nape of his neck and the soft wisps of hair that curl there. Zevran finds the edge of her shirt, slips a hand underneath. She nearly melts at his touch, skin against skin, and she allows him to tug it up and up, over her head, tossing it to the floor.  

He leans back on his knees, and smiles. Her hair, splayed over pillows, a mess of braids and more, and she captures his gaze. Never one to shy away from his attentions, his appreciation of her. He dances touch over her belly, ever upwards, watches as the gooseflesh follows his fingertips. Circling her breasts, over collarbone and shoulder, back down the curve of her. He knows every inch of her, and will never forget. He can see her clearly when he closes his eyes, but better this, to have her real, have her here.

“Noya, Noya, Noya,” whispered as he buries his head in the crook of her neck, as he feels her hands wander the expanse of his shoulders, down his back. “I have been too long from you. Soon it will be over, and I will never leave your side again.”

“You’ll grow tired of me,” she says. Some angry knot between his brows as he plants his forehead over hers, pouting with downturned lips.

“More like you will become sick of me and send me away,” he tells her.

“Impossible,” she says. Eyes closing as this kiss is gentle, sweet. His arms underneath her, hands at her shoulders. Weight that carefully presses against her, happy to simply bask in each other. She plants a smaller kiss after the longer ones, a signature, and an invitation of more. Such a thing, to breathe her in. To hold her after months apart. Letters could not slip hands underneath his tunic, find the ridges of his spine. They could not trace the tattoos on his back with memorized touch, not needing to see to know where they are. Letters could not capture a fraction of her.

Mouth against her neck, teeth gentle against flesh. He flutters a kiss to the goblet of her throat, clusters many over where her heart beats in her chest. The rise and fall of her breathing, the shuddered inhale as he breathes warm over her breast, tongue wet and eager. The other underneath his palm, and he feels her subtly shift beneath him. Receptive, wanting. All these little things he’s come to learn, come to know, how best to please and pleasure. There are days when he thinks he was made for her.

She lets her hands fall onto the pillow beside her as he makes his way down her belly, a line of kisses on her skin by the waistband of her trousers. Her shoes are easily removed, cast to the floor. Fingers hooking into her pants, and she raises her hips. They flutter down to all the rest. His hands around her ankles, moving slowly up her leg, down her thighs and he falls with them. Her legs over his shoulders and he is carefully exhaling against her inner thigh. Making them wet with an eager kiss, and she shivers as he breathes on her skin.

Attention given to one, he now turns to the next. A teasing turn of his head, the slightest rise of her hips in anticipation. He smiles at it, and nibbles a bite into her thigh. Sharply inhaled through clenched teeth, and her fist squeezes around the pillow. “Zev,” she says, and his only reply is the gentle press of his hands against her thighs. A relief, when he finally turns to her properly, and it’s almost a shock – that first lick against her clit. A kiss, a taste, a touch, enough to draw out a groan before he attends her proper.

Circling her clit carefully, sucking at it slowly. He traces his name with his tongue against her, liberally drools with want of her. His fingers brush against the soft curls of her cunt again and again, enough for her to know his presence and want even more. Moving through the folds of her, pressing against her entrance. He opens his eyes, watches the way she raggedly breathes, one hand fisted in her own hair. The heels of her press against her back, and her leg shakes when his tongue brushes against her in that way, and she shudders when his finger pushes inside.

“Zevran,” and it’s broken in her mouth, a desperate plea. He does not miss the way she grinds against his mouth, the urgency in which she speaks his name. Reaching down to run a hand through his hair, to grab at him, to keep him close to her cunt. He keeps the rhythm of his finger steady, overjoyed at the way she reacts. Lush and wet, tight and hot. A dutiful worshipper, happy to attend her table, taste her feast. “Zevran, I want –” Greedy. But he obliges. A kiss to her cunt, to her clit, to her belly and to her breasts, moving over her until he finds her mouth.

Urgent, in the way she tugs at his shirt, half ripping it off of him. Reaching between them, undoing his lacings with ease. He falls heavy into her hand, hard with desire and want of her. Wrapping around the base of his cock, and her hand feels so much different than his own. Lonely nights were the ones without her, and she knows just how to twist her wrist, where to tighten, that makes him groan against her. His trousers are easily shed as she pushes against his chest.

He leans against the headboard, not quite sitting straight but not lying down either, and she smiles as she straddles him. Laying his cock the way she wants, trapping it underneath her. Her hands pressed into his chest as she begins to grind against him. The way she is – arms tightly together and her breasts between them, swaying as she moves – and he, unable to resist. Hands at her waist, the curve of her, looking up at her and licking his lips.

“You missed me?” She asks in a low voice.

“Yes,” he says.

“Did you pleasure yourself without me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you think of me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Our first night together,” he says, eyes half-lidded. Her hips move expertly, without pause, and pre-cum drops against his belly. “In the grass. After sparring.”

“Tell me,” she encourages, in a haze, the flush plain on her cheeks.

“I thought you might be rid of me. I was so eager to please my lovely Warden but it was you – I could not resist you.” His fingers bruise into her hips, and he tilts his head back. “Even in the darkness I knew how beautiful you were. You felt like nothing I had ever known.”

“Tell me,” whispered, ragged. She leans forward, hands around the headboard. His hands move over her lower back, upwards, splaying against her as he kisses the center of her chest.

“You held me so tightly. As though we were made to fit together. A heat like no other, a fire that I could only surrender to. I needed every sweet sound you made, and I wanted to fuck you until dawn. Until you could not stand, my lovely Warden. I wanted you to need me as much as I knew I needed you.”  

“And yet you refused to come to my tent,” she says.

“How could I trust this woman that seduced me so completely? Dangerous,” he tells her.

“I know you slept with a knife,” she says.

“You say that as if I do not sleep with one now,” he says, and she laughs. Some low, heady thing, all the knowing in that smile. He had been so afraid, of this woman, this Warden. She had coiled the rope around his neck without her knowing, and he thought she might hang the noose at any time. All it would take was one blunder, one misstep, and she would realize the snake she had let into her camp. The treacherous Crow. She had felled him with a kiss, just as she does now.

Reaching between them, and she takes him in her hand. Leaning forward as she moves the head of him against her cunt, aligns him with her entrance. Lowering slowly, settling down upon him, and she clenches around his cock. Then, just as now, like nothing he has ever known. Taking him in completely, wet and warm around him, and she begins to move. Her breasts bounce with her every thrust, and he is raising his hips to meet her. Wanting to be buried deep, lock and key, hating to be parted.

Her thumb traces the line of his jaw, brushes against the earring. A matching one, pierced on hers. A match. Two parts, one whole. “ _Mi amor_ ,” he murmurs as he pushes himself to sit up completely, to hold her in his arms. Guiding her every thrust with a hand on her back, on her ass. Her elbows rest on his shoulders, her forehead against his. The kisses are quick, fleeting things, broken for the gasping moan, the reassuring call of his name. How things had changed from that first time, how things had not. He still wants to please her. He still wants her to need him. Always. Greedy, but she obliges.

“My Zevran, Zev,” she says, and he quickly rolls them over. On his knees, hands tight on her hips. Burying his face against her chest, the heels of her feet against her ass. Fucking her slowly, deeply, a steady rhythm and he feels her fingertips press against his back. “ _Mhmm_.” Her back arches beneath him, and he feels her cunt tighten in wave after wave. Her legs shake with it, her toes curl, and he rides out her pleasure. The deep breaths, the satisfied mewl, and he closes his eyes. The rhythm of him stutters as he cums, spills his seed inside of her.

They are loathe to separate. Content enough to simply be still together, to hold each other like this. Slow to align themselves properly, for Zevran to pull himself up and kiss the tip of her nose. “Noya,” he says, his head settling on the pillow beside her. Limb tangled up in limb, legs entwined. Arms around each other, chest pressed against chest, and she smiles warmly at the sound of her name.

“I have missed everything about you, _mi sol_ ,” she says. “I love the sound of your voice.” Her hand is moving in lazy circles, tender touches against his back. “The feeling of you inside me. Your kisses. Your touch. I have missed you beside me. You have ruined me with love.” Nose brushing against nose and he chuckles. “I used to think that I would be fine on my own. Now I can’t bear to be without you.” He tightens the embrace, kisses her slowly.

“You are not alone in this, my Noya. Not even the gods themselves could wrest me from your arms,” he tells her. “ _Mi amor, mi alma, mi vida, mi vida,_ my Warden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sex, Laughter, Honesty week on tumblr. You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/). Cheers!


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